Holding you in my arms was the happiest I’ve ever been. -Asher
On the sixth day of him leaving coffee and notes for me, the note is just simply:
Let me take you out on a date. A real date. Because my feelings for you aren’t fake, Grace. -Asher
I’m flustered and frustrated and considering just going home and watching Netflix again, but I’ve always processed my feelings by writing, so instead, I sit down and get to work. I’m still staring at the iced caramel latte on the scratched-up table at Sweet Bean two hours later when my phone buzzes in my pocket. The hum of the coffee shop—low chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine—fades as I pull it out, Kacey’s name flashing across the screen. My thumb hovers for a second, a flicker of dread mixing with the need to vent. I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear, my other hand still inches from Asher’s peace offering.
“Gracie, I'm literally obsessed with this story. I wish it wasn't inspired by ass-face, but I guess even the worst men can inspire great work.”
I snort. "I feel like ass-face isn't even a good nickname."
"I'll keep trying."
I let out a breath, my gaze flicking to the empty spot where Asher stood, the door’s bell still echoing in my head. “He’s here, Kace,” I tell her, my voice low and frayed at the edges.
“Uhm… What?”
"Asher. He’s here. In Cedar Falls. He showed up at the coffee shop earlier this week, bumped into me, literally, and spilled coffee all over himself. He says he regrets what happened and that he messed up. Then the next day, he was sitting here with my favorite coffee order in my booth. And then he just left. No begging, no big speech... He’s been doing it every day since. There’s always a little note on the napkin. Sweet things, things that I can’t stop thinking about. I even dreamt about him the other night. We were just cuddling, and I made him laugh, and when I woke up, I could still feel the warmth of him.” I pause, taking a big breath, slightly overwhelmed. “And today, he wrote that he wants to take me on a real date.” I nudge the cup with a finger, the cold seeping into my skin. There’s a pause on her end, the kind where I can almost hear her chewing her lip, weighing her usual anti-Asher venom against something new.
“Okay, first, that’s creepy as hell, him lingering in your hometown like some lost puppy with a platinum card,” she starts, her tone still edged with disdain. “But, damn, Gracie, I gotta admit… showing up every day, not pushing too hard, just leaving you your coffee and some love notes? It’s kinda cracking my ‘hate this guy forever’ wall, just a tiny bit. Especially since you’re obviously having some feelings about it. Doesn’t mean I forgive him for breaking your heart, though. What’s your head saying?”
I rub my temple, the ache there pulsing in time with my racing heart. “My head says run. It says he broke me once, and I’m not whole enough to risk it again. But my stupid heart…” I trail off, swallowing the lump in my throat, my eyes fixed on the coffee like it holds answers. “It remembers every good thing, Kace. The way he made me feel seen. And I hate that part of me still wonders if he’s here because he wants me back. Deep down, I know that’s why he’s here, and I’m scared.”
Kacey sighs, softer now, the fight draining from her voice. “Look, I’ll always want to dropkick him into next week for what he did, and I understand why you’re scared, but if he’s sticking around, playing the quiet, thoughtful card… maybe he’s fighting for real. Doesn’t mean you have to let him in. Just… don’t close the door completely, okay? Let him show you what you mean to him, if that’s something you want. You deserve answers, even if it’s just to slam it shut on his face later.”
Her words linger as I end the call after catching up with her, the phone dropping to the table with a soft thud. I wrap both hands around the cup, the chill grounding me as I wrestle with the mess inside. Kacey’s crack of doubt mirrors the one in me, and I don’t know if that makes it worse or better.
Later, at home, the farmhouse kitchen glows under the warm light of the overhead lamp, the scent of fresh bread cooling on the counter mixing with the faint pine of the nearby fields. Mom’s at the sink, rinsing a mixing bowl, her flannel sleeves rolled up, a smudge of flour dusting her cheek. I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, the weight of the day still clinging to me like damp fabric. She glances over, her hazel eyes catching mine, and shuts off the water, drying her hands on a faded towel.
“You’ve got that look, Gracie,” she says, her voice a gentle nudge as she turns to face me, leaning a hip against the counter. “Somethin’ eating at you. Wanna talk about it?”
I shuffle in, dropping into a chair at the scarred wooden table, my fingers tracing a groove from years of family dinners. “It’s Asher. He’s in town, Mom. Keeps showing up at Sweet Bean and leaving me coffees and sweet notes. I told him I can’t trust him, that I’m done, but he’s not leaving. And each note breaks my walls down a little more… I don’t know how to handle it.” My voice cracks on the last word, quieter than I mean it to be.
Mom pulls out the chair across from me, sitting with a sigh that sounds like she’s carried my pain as long as I have. Her hands fold on the table, worn from years of tending the farm, and her gaze softens in a way that tugs at something deep in my chest. “Honey, love’s a tricky beast. It cuts deep, leaves scars, but it also has this stubborn way of hanging on, even when you think it’s gone. I’ve seen how you’ve hurt this month, shut yourself off to heal. But I’ve also seen you writing again, finding your fire. If Asher’s still here, showing up, maybe he’s got scars too. Maybe he’s learning what losing you cost him.”
After being home for two weeks, I finally told my mom what actually happened between me and Asher. She’s the only one in my family who knows the truth, and we agreed it was better to not tell my dad and brothers, unless we wanted them to actually try to kill Asher.
I blink at her, the words sinking in, warm and heavy. My throat tightens as I look down at the table, tracing the same groove over and over. “But what if I let him close again, and it’s just more pain? I barely pieced myself back together last time.”
She reaches across, her hand covering mine, grounding me like it did when I was a kid scared of thunderstorms. “Then you remember you’re stronger than you feel right now. You’ve got a heart big as this farm, Gracie, always have. It’s okay to guard it, to take your time. But don’t let fear decide for you. Listen to what you need, not just what you’re afraid of. If he’s worth it, he’ll wait. If he’s not, you’ll know you’re whole without him. Eitherway, you’ve got more love in you than any hurt can take away. I promise you that.”
Her words wrap around me, a quiet balm to the storm in my chest. I squeeze her hand back, a small nod all I can manage as tears prick at my eyes from the fierce, tender certainty in her voice.
The kitchen hums with the familiar creak of the house settling, and for the first time in days, I feel a sliver of clarity beneath the mess. Maybe not an answer, but a path to finding one.
54
GRACE
October brings falling leaves and a crisp autumn chill. I switch to a hot latte to warm up and settle into my normal booth.
Moments later, I'm hunched over my laptop, trying to work on my book, but my focus is elsewhere. My eyes shoot to the door every time the bell chimes. He wasn’t waiting for me today, and I wonder if that means he’s given up or if he’ll be coming later.
The scent of espresso and warm pastries wrap around me, familiar and soothing, yet my nerves are a live wire. I'm not sure if I'm dreading Asher's arrival or hoping for it.
When the bell jingles again, my head snaps up on instinct. This time, it is him. Pushing through the door with his quiet, commanding presence that still tugs at something raw in me. Today, he's wearing a dark gray coat that looks more tailored and sophisticated than what most people wear in this town. There's a black beanie on his head, though, and when he pulls it off to stuff it in his coat pocket, it messes up his hair and reminds me of nights where my fingers ran through the chestnut locks.
His steel-gray eyes find me instantly, cutting through the morning crowd of locals sipping their coffees and skimming newspapers. My pulse kicks up, a traitor to the walls I’ve been rebuilding, as he heads straight for my table.
